D_Whitby's Darkest Secret

by Chris Turnbull

  She emerged from the train with what must be her husband, a strange looking man if you ask me. They seemed an odd couple. She was extremely beautiful, with her pale radiant complexion set against the amber dress and enormous hat. I could not take my eyes off her and watched as she followed her husband along the platform towards the exit, towards me. I managed to watch her every move as she left the station without her seeing me, her ape of a husband leading the way. It was clear just to look at them both that they were from London. Their expensive clothing and luggage screamed ‘Aristocrat’ and the way she held herself as she walked was certainly more highbrow than anybody I had ever seen.

  I saw them talking to Tom, the young boy who always seemed to find work taxiing people around the town; he never makes much money but for a homeless youngster he always seems to be doing good for himself. The whole town knows Tom, he is always smiling and always busy earning a living.

  I watched as they both climbed into Tom’s carriage and found myself strangely intrigued to know where they were staying. Before the horses and carriage had time to move I emerged from the station doorway and ran to catch up with them. Holding onto the rear of the cart I perched myself on the back foot stool and hiked a lift with the unaware passengers. As I held on I could hear them talking quietly from within the carriage, her softly spoken southern accent sounded as perfect and graceful as her beautiful face. I tried to hear what she was saying but her hushed tone was difficult to make out full sentences.

  I noticed that I was perched next to their luggage, a small monogram atop of each bag which read ‘Mr & Mrs Summers’. Despite the cold evening air the leather-covered luggage felt warm against my hands. I so badly wanted to open the suitcase and take a look inside but as the feeling took hold of me the carriage briskly turned into Church Street and I had to hold on tight before I was thrown off.

  I knew Church Street eventually led to a dead end. It continued down to the base of the 199 stairs which lead up to St Mary’s Church on the clifftop, and of course the ruins of Whitby Abbey.

  I decided to dismount the carriage now, and chose instead to hold back. I was keen to find out exactly where this beautiful young lady was staying, but did not want to be too close where I may have been seen. I watched as the carriage slowed down outside The White Horse and Griffin, a quiet little inn that was very rarely busy. Young Tom bounced off the carriage and opened the door for the beautiful lady to get out; as she stepped into the doorway of the inn I could almost see through the darkness that she was unimpressed by the look of the place.

  I could not take my eyes off her; she looked perfect in every way; which caused me to feel dirty and unworthy of even being near her. I watched as her husband disappeared inside and she handed over a tip to Tom. I knew there and then that this lady was special, not like any of the woman you would find round these parts; in fact she did not even seem like the women you would expect to come from London. She smiled at Tom as she spoke to him and shook his dirty hand without batting an eye or looking disgraced as so many would.

  As Tom guided his horse away I continued to watch her. Why was she not going inside?

  Suddenly she turned her head and looked right at me. I froze. What was I to do? For a split second we stood motionless looking at one and other. I could not fully read her expression as she tried to strain her eyes through the darkness at me. Her husband re-emerged from the Inn and startled her; this was my perfect opportunity to move out of her sight.

  When I looked back a moment later she was going through the doorway of the Inn.

  I knew immediately that I wanted to see her again.

  Chapter 3

  Victoria

  Inside our room I realised just how exhausted I was. The strains of such a long day travelling had finally caught up with me and I was ready for an early night.

  Despite the disappointing appearance outside, inside, the inn was beautiful. Our room was surprisingly lovely with a beautiful wooden framed bed which had been dressed in immaculate bed linen. Large dark curtains framed the large window, and a good sized wooden desk and chair sat just below. There was also a little wood burning fire in the corner, already lit and warming the room perfectly for us. I removed my gloves and placed them onto the small circular bedside table and admired the room as Albert placed our luggage onto the bed; there was a large dark wardrobe beside the bed facing the window which I hoped had some hangers for our belongings. We even had our own bathroom, which I was assured is rare in such small towns of the north.

  The bedroom was delightful and I was pleased by its warmth and homeliness, especially after walking through the narrow dimly lit old bar downstairs, which still, to my surprise, managed to fit two rather large crystal chandeliers from the ceiling.

  I began unpacking our luggage, hanging both my own and Albert’s clothes inside the enormous wardrobe; I took off my hat and laid it on the four poster bed. I was pleased to see such a large woollen blanket draped on the end for extra warmth. The bed itself looked extremely comfortable, and I could not wait to curl up under the covers and enjoy a good night’s sleep.

  Albert was sat at the desk nestled perfectly below a small wooden window; he was writing a letter, to whom I was unsure. I knew it was more likely to be business related and I tended to stay out his political affairs.

  As I unpacked the remaining items there was a gentle knock on the door. Albert immediately stood from the desk and strode past me to open it; stood on the opposite side of the door was Mr Walker, the inn landlord, a plain looking man; he wore dark trousers, a white shirt and a waistcoat. His thinning hair was combed to one side to attempt hiding the bald spot that was starting to appear. His hair which was black had threads of silver throughout and the perfectly kept moustache that sat above his lip did the same. He must have been about six feet tall, was very slim and had a somewhat pale complexion.

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you, Sir,’ came his soft hushed voice from the doorway. I paused for a moment in order to listen. ‘A number of the town council members have arrived in the bar downstairs and hoped they would be able to see you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Walker,’ Albert replied promptly. ‘Please inform them that I will be down shortly.’

  I heard Mr Walker’s footsteps departing as Albert gently shut the door again. I knew what this meant: these small affairs always ended up with the men playing cards and drinking themselves stupid until the early hours, and as always I was left behind. Women, of course, would not be welcomed at such meetings. If I was lucky I would sometimes get to sit in another room with the other wives and knit, whilst talking about baking and other such boring housewifely chores, while the men enjoyed themselves.

  Albert kissed me on the cheek as he always did, grabbed his jacket and top hat which he had left draped over the desk and walked briskly out of the room. We had not even been in Whitby an hour and I had already been deserted for some social gathering. I had known this was how our belated honeymoon was going to end up, but I didn’t realise it would happen quite this quickly.

  Alone in the room and with the luggage finally put away, I decided to write a letter to my mother. I knew she would be worried about me as I very rarely left London unless I was visiting family in Somerset. I sat myself down at the desk and began searching the drawers for something to write on. I quickly found some charming paper in the top drawer and there was a selection of pens.

  Dearest Mother,

  I paused. I was unsure what to put next. I didn’t really have anything yet to tell her, all we had done was arrive. I couldn’t even tell her the town looked pretty, as it was far too dark to really make out anything from the carriage.

  As I sat in the wooden chair, I found myself staring out of the window, down towards the dark street below. Only now had I realised that we were in fact at the front of the building overlooking Church Street. Even from my small view of the street I could tell the fog was getting thicker, I couldn’t see a single street lamp lit along the narrow road and the streets remained emp
ty. London is still very busy after dark.

  Whitby was beginning to feel like a ghost town. Why were the streets deserted from people and traffic? And the street lamps had been left untouched as though they had been completely forgotten – why? My questions were soon answered.

  My eyes suddenly fell upon a copy of the local newspaper, lying on the side of the desk. The date upon it was of the previous day, the headline reading:

  Whitby Still in Darkness.

  I picked up the paper, intrigued as to what the headline could be referring to. As I unfolded the creased paper a man’s photograph became visible beneath the short article, his name printed underneath as Detective Matthews. Intrigued, I began to read the cover story of The Whitby Gazette.

  This week marks the sixth consecutive week of Whitby’s black out. Gas lamps that line the main streets of the town continue to remain unlit during this time following the deaths of numerous victims around the harbour area.

  Last Friday it was reported that a man had been arrested for these brutal attacks. However as we go to print, yet another victim has been found, this time on Tate Hill Sands. After thorough investigation the suspect, who cannot be named for legal reasons, was released.

  Detective Matthews has promised the people of Whitby that he is certain to be drawing in on this crazed madman, and that he has every hope to have him in his custody imminently.

  In the past six weeks, five women have been found dead at various locations around the town, the first being that of Miss Lucy Jones, 17, one of the town’s small number of lamplighters, on the night of 28th December.

  Ever since then, the streets of Whitby have laid in darkness, with the remaining lamplighters refusing to walk the streets after dark.

  George Harrold of the Whitby Council has urged people to remain at home after sunset, and has asked that should anybody have any information regarding these attacks, that they come forward immediately.

  The story continued inside, but I put down the paper after finishing only the front page. There was another knock on the door. I jumped with fright at the sudden noise, I had been sitting in complete silence. It was Mr Walker again, who had kindly brought me some food.

  ‘I took the liberty of bringing you something to eat, Ma’am. Your husband informs me that he intends eating with the gentleman from the Council. If you need anything else please do not hesitate to come downstairs and find me.’ With that he laid the tray of food on the desk and politely let himself out.

  I inspected the white plate upon which was a chicken leg that was so hot it was steaming, as well as boiled potatoes and vegetables; the silver cutlery had been polished and sparked in the light, and I was delighted to see a glass of wine also sitting on the tray. It was only now that I realised just how hungry I was, and the plate was soon cleared.

  Looking again at the letter I had begun to write, I decided to put it away for another day; I did not wish my mother to be upset at such profligacy.

  A small bucket of coal was laid beside the fire to help warm the room for longer. I topped it up with a small shovel full and watched as the small flames engulfed the newly laid coal, watching it happily as though it was a form of amusement. It was so cold outside, and I was pleased to have the warmth of the fire as I began to undress for bed. The room was already getting pleasantly warmer; I hated the feeling of being cold, especially at night.

  I brought over a small candle on a brass holder to the bedside table and was beginning to get myself comfortable in the enormous bed when I realised I had forgotten to close the curtains. I sat for a moment staring at the curtains, pouting at them in the vain hope they would close themselves. After a few seconds I got myself out of bed again and walked round the large bedframe towards the window. I stumbled and tripped as I stubbed my toe on the corner of the bed. I barely touched the large wooden post, but to me the pain was unnerving as my toe began to throb. The floorboards creaked as I stumbled and I let out a small cry of pain.

  Finally at the window I took hold of the heavy fabric curtains that were tied to the sides, and as I began pulling them together I saw in the corner of my eye the outline of a man standing in the middle of the empty road. I looked closer to see if I could make out the person’s identity, but it was difficult in the darkness.

  As I stared at the figure I suddenly could tell that he was looking straight up at me. I froze with fear at who this strange man could be, and before I could firmly close the curtains he raised his hand towards his face. Intrigued at what he was doing I hesitated in closing the curtains, and as I watched him he seemingly tipped the corner of his hat in a greeting that was clearly directed towards me.

  I quickly hid myself behind the safety of the curtains and threw myself back towards my bed. Who was this man? Was it the same man I saw earlier? And better still why was he watching me?

  Chapter 4

  Victoria

  Sunday 11th February 1900

  I had barely slept at all that night. I could not get the image of the mysterious man from my mind. When Albert arrived back into the room at some Godforsaken hour I was pleased to see him. His breath stank of alcohol yet I did not care. As he got into bed I found myself forgetting about my anger with him, and cuddled in close where I immediately felt safe.

  We were awoken by Mr Walker around 8 o’clock. His voice gently passed through the door, telling us breakfast was being served in half an hour, before his footsteps echoed back along the landing.

  Being Sunday we had already planned on attending church. We regularly went to church back in London, so it only seemed right we should attend in Whitby As an aspiring politician, Albert liked to make sure we attended and were part of the community.

  I was keen to get out of the Inn and see the town in daylight. It became clear that there was not much of a view to be had from our window other than the blacksmith shop facing us.

  The small dining room where we ate breakfast was at the back of the inn. The only window was a narrow side panel that looked directly into a small courtyard where I saw Tom, the small boy from the previous night, leading one of the large shire horses from the stable and tying him securely to the railings whilst he mucked out. I couldn’t help myself watching him; this little boy who was clearly no older than eight must have been freezing. It was another cold morning, a gentle frost had been left behind in the night air, the ground and walls shimmered in the dim light as though they had been showered in sequins, yet I watched the young boy in his ripped short trousers and dirty shirt, dressed as though it were the height of summer; a grey flat cap hiding his unmanaged hair, and large boots protecting his feet from the dirt of the stables. I spent the entire duration of my breakfast watching him in admiration as he went about his chores, oblivious to his audience of one.

  Albert was never talkative during breakfast; he would always sit opposite me with a newspaper in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. I would normally be rushing around making sure he had everything he needed for the day ahead. It was rather strange for me to be able to sit down and relax; I was already enjoying this holiday, and it suddenly occurred to me that I also did not have to do the washing up.

  Albert has been trying to convince me into getting a maid for months, but I have never understood people that need a maid, for if we had a maid then what was I supposed to do all day. Albert leaves early in the morning and does not return until nearly 6 in the evening most days, for if I had a maid I would only be going round the house after her, helping with the chores, I had never been one to sit down and knit all afternoon..

  Mr Walker entered the breakfast room; he was keen to see that we were satisfied with the hospitality so far.

  ‘Good Morning Sir, Madam, I hope you both had a relaxing evening and that your breakfast is satisfactory, and I hope our new waitress is taking good care of you this morning.’ He seemed more cheerful this morning, yet his tone was still hushed as he spoke to us. Albert replied that he was extremely happy and told Mr Walker that we had had a comfortable night; I gladly g
ave a smile of satisfaction in agreement to this. The young girl who had served us, had spent most of her time back in the kitchen, I had noticed her peeking through the small looking glass to see if we were in need of anything, but she seemed happy to leave us be.

  After breakfast we got ourselves ready for Church. I had a map of Whitby town spread out on the bed, one my sister had given me, and was trying to see how far it was to the church. I had never been that good at reading maps; most of the time they just look like patterned lines on the paper. My judgment of distance was appalling also, but from looking at the map I was almost certain that we could easily walk to St Mary’s Church... at least, so I thought. Before we left Albert checked the map, smirked at me and turned it around. Clearly I had been reading it upside down, but Albert was too polite to poke fun at me. His good-humoured grin was enough to cause me embarrassment and I tried to hold back my own laughter. Albert had a word with Mr Walker on the way out, just to make sure we were in fact headed in the right direction.

  Finally out on the street I felt free at last. The fog had lifted and the street was reasonably busy. The smell of the salty sea instantly hit me, and the cold crisp air caused my fingertips to tingle. Children were playing noisily in the street – a group of boys playing with hoops, hitting them with sticks to keep them rolling down the street as they chased after them, racing past Albert and myself in pursuit of them as they gained speed. Further along the cobbled road a group of children were playing with marbles, hitting them against the side of the kerb and screaming and cheering excitably when their friends did well. My sister has two children, I adore spending time with them. Watching children play without a care in the world is so endearing; the innocence and carefree attitude of children I will always envy and admire at the same time.